


take me to the chosen one (and your heart)

by constellationsofsentences



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Knight!Ginny, Princess!Pansy, i still dont understand words so..., or like... more fantasy than before, this started as a rapunzel au and look where it ended up jfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 00:51:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationsofsentences/pseuds/constellationsofsentences
Summary: The woman crosses one scuffed riding boot over the other. She moves to lean against a broken, dusty table, watching Pansy. She is tall and willowy, belt strung low on her hips. The expression she fixes on Pansy is impossible to read. Her face is covered in freckles, which trail down her arms.The knight says, “I guess I’m going to save you.” She crosses her arms: one ends in a single, freckled stump instead of a hand. She looks at Pansy, as if daring her to challenge her. Her dented breastplate is lopsided.“Excuse me, madam,” says Pansy, as curt as she dares, “but it’smewho’s going to save my people."





	take me to the chosen one (and your heart)

**Author's Note:**

> wow. this fic took... a lot out of me. its also possibly the longest fic ive actually finished in... forever. i hope you love it as much as i do. 
> 
> also, no, i don't understand how swordfights work. i tried my best anyway.

There is no denying the seediness of this inn. _The Groundskeeper’s Hut_ is crammed with slimy grins and leering eyes.Pansy tries to keep it together. _This is for your people,_ she reminds herself. For her people, who currently lie in a deathly sleep. For her people, who are currently withering away behind closed doors, lying sprawled in empty halls. For her people, who  are waiting for her to release them.

She continues towards the bar. A giant slings a cloth over his shoulder and begins filling an enormous tankard with some sort of ale. His hulking frame looms above her as she tries to ask for some sort of drink.

His responding laugh booms.

“You after Dung?” he asks, pointing with a meaty finger at the most slimy of the lot. He is bald, and her smirks at Pansy in a way that makes her skin crawl. “Sweet girl like you, probably after some stolen heirlooms from him.” The batman doesn’t pronounce all his consonants; his accent is strange to her ears. She’s used to clipped words and long vowels, had spent hours in etiquette lessons learning proper diction. 

“No,” she says, careful. “I need a guide.”

The barman cards a giant hand through his beard and considers her. He laughs again. “Where to?”

Behind him, a dog barks. It is nearly as enormous as him, and just as loud. The barman leans behind him to pet it. The dog growls at Pansy. 

“I need to find the Chosen One.”

“Truly?” The barman raises his overgrown eyebrows and looks shiftily around. “You’re an odd one for that. But I think I can manage to find you one.” He turns a huge head across and shouts, “Oi, Nev!”

The man who must be Nev shuffles across to meet them. “I gotta job for you,” says the barman.

“Sure, Hagrid,” Nev says. His manner is odd; he is clearly uncomfortable in this environment. His shoulders curl over in a way that implies extreme embarrassment. His brown hair is cut so it falls into his eyes. He doesn’t meet Pansy’s eyes, nor does he take her hand when she offers it. 

“Neville, this young lady wants to find the Chosen One. Take her to Ginny for me, will you?”

Neville’s laugh is short, surprised. He stares at Pansy incredulously. Pansy levels a challenging gaze at him.

He gulps. “Follow me, my lady,” he murmurs. Above the swell of conversation surrounding them, it’s barely audible. Neville starts for a door beside a lopsided pile of barrels. It’s worn-down and destroyed, much like the rest of this place. Pansy hurries to follow it.

As they pass through the door, the noise dulls. Pansy exhales. The noise had been overwhelming. At her home, the only time it was ever that loud was on holidays. She remembers, one Winter Solstice, helping to organise a ball. She had been engaged to Draco for the first two dances, but afterwards she and Astoria had careened across the floor again and again, feeling as though she was flying, until her father had demanded Pansy choose a new partner. So they had danced once with both Theo and Blaise in turn, before collapsing in front of the fireplace and gossiping far past dawn. She remembers the tingling feeling brought on by several glasses of wine, the swooping feeling that had been caused by their general misbehaviour on the dance floor. She’d spent hours choosing her dress: a delicate forest-green piece, which floated around her legs when she moved, and she remembers the feeling of it brushing her legs as she danced, like fairy wings brushing against her calves. The memory makes her smile for a moment, before she sobers.

They have arrived in some sort of back room, equally as decrepit as the rest of the inn, if less loud. A group of people are playing some sort of card game around an enormous table.

“Luna, we know you’re cheating!” cries one. Her brown hair resembles a cloud around her face, her eyes are gentle and lovely. She has several books balanced on her knees as she brandishes her cards pointedly. 

Another, blond and wispy, laughs.

“I would never,” she says. Her voice has a musical quality. She follows her friend’s eyes to look at Pansy when Neville coughs awkwardly. “Oh, hello, Neville,” she says. Neville blushes.

The woman has long earring which sparkle when they catch the light. Her dress is a deep blue, like the night sky, and it, too, sparkles in the pale light from the window.

“This lady,” Neville begins, “is looking to find the Chosen One.”

The third girl, a knight, stands up. “Are you wanting a guide?” she asks. She wears no helmet and her hair is loose. Her hair is as red as the blood moon that had spilled gentle light across the garden one night and sparked months of prophecies of doom, as red as the spices Pansy had seen added to a dish in the kitchens that had made her insides feel like melted butter.It’s the colour of copper flames beneath the mantle, of the balcony’s sun-warmed tiles that used to burn Pansy’s bare feet. The red locks spill over her shoulders, viciously knotted by the wind. Her armour is battered and beaten. The twigs that must have caught in her hair during her travels stick up in odd directions. She pulls a glove off with her teeth. All the while, the knight’s eyes remain fixed on Pansy. They are honey brown, like the trunks of the trees Pansy had seen in the woods by her palace, when travelling with Theodore and Astoria. These hazel eyes spark with excitement and mischief. They are wild. Beautifully so.

The woman crosses one scuffed riding boot over the other. She moves to lean against a broken, dusty table, watching Pansy. She is tall and willowy, belt strung low on her hips. The expression she fixes on Pansy is impossible to read. Her face is covered in freckles, which trail down her arms.

The knight says, “I guess I’m going to save you.” She crosses her arms: one ends in a single, freckled stump instead of a hand. She looks at Pansy, as if daring her to challenge her. Her dented breastplate is lopsided.

“Excuse me, madam,” says Pansy, as curt as she dares, “but it’s _me_ who’s going to save _my_ people. _You’re_ just here as my guide.”

Neville begins to cough loudly. Luna thumps him enthusiastically on the back, which makes him cough harder.

“That’s _sir_ to you,” says the knight. “Sir Ginevra. My friends call me Ginny.” She offers her hand, although Pansy guesses it’s more out of obligation than anything else.

“Well, Sir Ginevra,” Pansy begins, fixing her dress, “are you going to help me find the Chosen One, or not?”

Ginevra raises her sharp eyebrows. “I suppose I must. Chivalry, and all that.” Her tone is intriguing. She sounds almost cynical of her own post.

Pansy watches her carefully. The knight stretches out her hand. It feels like a peace offering.

She says, “Very well, Sir Ginevra. When do we start?”

“Now. Then I may be home for dinner tomorrow, if we make haste.”

 

The inn gardens are overrun with weeds and vines. Ginevra leads her straight through a flowerbed, picking her way around several pumpkins which lie strewn across the grass. Pansy adjusts her pack on her shoulders. It’s heavy; filled with all the possessions she could carry. She had tried to think practically, chosen several sets of practical clothes, a few books, some comfortable shoes, her dagger. She’d also strung a bow and a set of arrows across her back. But there had been an element of sentimentality that had led to her taking a set of miniature profiles, one of each of her closest childhood friends. They lie carefully at the top of her bag, so Pansy can retrieve them at ease. Just three days ago, she had gone out hunting with Blaise and Draco. Now, they lie in her palace, asleep. And she is the only one who can save them.

A horse is tied loosely with string to one of the rusted gates. It whinnies excitedly at their approach. Ginevra laughs as she unties it.

“This is Pig,” she says.

Pansy lifts her eyebrows. Pig bumps his nose against her side.

“It’s short for Pigwidgeon,” Ginevra continues, as if that clarifies something. “Climb up.”

 

She ends up pressed awkwardly against Ginevra as the horse stumbles through a forest that she does not know. A breeze blows Ginevra’s hair back into Pansy’s face. It tickles her nose. It is impossibly un-grand.

Her pack is fastened to the saddle, alongside Ginevra’s.

“How are we going to find the Chosen One?” Pansy cries, craning her neck to get a view of this strange forest. The trees are strangely dark and heavy.

“First,” Ginevra says, “we are going to see my brother.”

“What on Earth for?” Pansy demands. The wind tousles her own hair. She imagines at the end of this journey it will be as tangled as Ginevra’s. She is glad she took the decision to cut it to just below her ears before she left.

The saddle rubs at her thighs. Pansy tries not to wince. Ginny gestures with a hand, and says, “So, what d’you want with the Chosen One anyway?”

Pansy closes her eyes. “The Dark Lord, he cursed my people,” she says, tersely. “So I’m going to save them.”

“Oh! What kind of curse?”

“A terrible one,” is all she offers. She focuses on remembering that Winter Solstice. It feels so long ago, and yet it was actually only a year and a half since she sat in front of a crackling fire and discussed Vincent Crabbe’s impending engagement with her closest friends while the music hung in the air around them. It’s a desperate sort of escape; a distraction, really.

Ginny laughs. If one could see noises, Pansy is sure this would be a soft mustard-yellow.

 

It takes several hours, but eventually they pull up in front of a cottage. Vines and honeysuckle climb the front of the building. It looks like a drawing out of the storybook she and Theo would pore over in the palace gardens in their youth. Pansy has to stop and admire the foxglove and sunflowers which adorn either side of the path. Ginevra strides forward and knocks on the door forcefully. A man answers the door, and cries out.

“Ginny! Returned from saving many a damsel, I hope,” he cries, before guffawing. This must be Ginevra’s brother. They are both tall, though he is lanky, and their hair is the same colour, though his is shorter. His beard is carefully trimmed and cared for. “Who is this?”

“Pansy,” Pansy says. “I’m looking for the Chosen One.”

“Where _is_ he?” asks Ginevra.

Her brother shakes his head. “Off moping, I think. He’s–ridiculous.”

The tone he uses makes Pansy’s forehead crease. The familiar tone implies that he is _close_ to the Chosen One. Pansy had always been raised believing the Chosen One to be some sort of mystical being who’s only purpose is to foil the Dark Lord.

She had feared him.

Now here she is, sitting in a room with someone who is presumably a friend of his.

Ginevra bites out a laugh. “That boy,” she says. “Ron, d’you have any food? You know about Hagrid’s food. Luna brought some crackers, but I would love a proper meal before we go off to find him.”

Her brother–Ron–nods. He grins. “I don’t understand how you stay so thin, considering how you decimate all my food.”

Ginevra pats her stomach. “It’s all the damsel-saving. Keeps me _super_ healthy.”

“I made some muffins this morning. Pansy, would you like some?”

Pansy is about to refuse, before she realises just how hungry she is. She hasn’t eaten anything but an apple since yesterday morning, when she’d swallowed a few measly spoonfuls of porridge before hurtling into the forest in search of _The Groundskeeper’s_ _Hut_. So she says, “That would be great, thanks.”

 

She manages three muffins before she begins to feel unwell. Ginevra inhales six, and laughs with Ron about the card game they’d been playing before Pansy had arrived. Apparently, Ron was courting Hermione, and turned red at any mention of her. Ginevra teases him incessantly.

It’s strange, just how much their interactions remind her of herself and Theo, or herself and Blaise, or even Draco.

She smiles, then checks herself. _Do not get distracted. You’ve can’t afford distractions._

“So what’s your story, Pansy?” Ginevra asks, halfway through her seventh–and final, Ron has declared–muffin.

“You know that. My people are–“

“No, I meant that I barely know you,” Ginevra says. “And we’re going to be travelling together for at least a few days. So what’s your story?”

Pansy laughs. It sounds harsher than she intends. She does not want to get too close to these people. And yet she finds herself answering the question anyway. “There’s not much to say. It’s the same as everything in the storybooks. Princess is betrothed to someone she doesn’t love. The usual.”

Ron raises his eyebrow. “So you’re a princess?”

Pansy isn’t sure whether she should have told them that. _Do not get distracted._ “Yes.”

“Wow, my lady.” Ginevra laughs. So does Ron, slinging an arm over his sister’s shoulders.

In an effort to turn the conversation away from her, Pansy says, “And you? What’s _your_ story, as you say?”

“Far less grand, I imagine,” remarks Ron.

“Our parents ran a bakery,” Ginevra says, and begins to detail a childhood of running around behind the counter, mucking about and causing havoc wherever they go. It sounds amazingly freeing, like everything Pansy wanted her childhood to be. Wild. Free.

Ron tells her how Ginevra used to go to the woods and pretend to be a knight, using a stick for a sword and her brothers for enemies.

“We practically lived in these woods,” Ginevra says. “We’d practice archery with makeshift bows and camp out for hours until we had to go home for supper.” She laughs. “It was our own little world, you know?”

Pansy does not know. She wishes she did.

The closest she ever had to those moments was when she was hunting, and even then she was constantly aware of the Palace Guards at her back. It was only the rush of being on a horse, moving far away from the Palace, that could make her forget about them for a moment.

And now she’s finally got out, and she’s going to go right back when she’s done.

Ron leans back in his chair. The legs scrape the floor harshly. Pansy jumps out of her thoughts.

“You okay, Princess?” asks her guide. Pansy nods, almost imperceptibly.

Ginevra looks at her with her wild eyes. It’s an expression that Pansy can’t interpret. She sets her elbows on the table, watching as Ginny does the same, resting her chin on the stump where her hand must once have been.

“Well,” Ron says, “I guess I should find somewhere for you to sleep.”

Pansy begins to object, but Ron waves her off. “Nonsense. It’s at least two days ride from here. Might as well get fully rested before then.”

Ginevra shrugs at her. It’s almost conspiratorial. Ron retrieves some sleeping mats from his attic and lays them across the floor in his tiny living room. Through the window, Pansy watches the sun dip behind the trees. Ginevra busies herself with packaging muffins and loaves of bread.

“Do you not live here?” Pansy asks. Ginevra laughs.

“Oh! No,” she says. “I live with Luna and Hermione in the village. But I’m away often, so…”

“And what of your other brothers?” questions Pansy. She is not sure why, but a part of her wants to know Ginevra as intimately as she knows Astoria.

Ginevra launches into a story about one of her brothers, who trains dragons in the faraway deserts. Pansy remembers, once, her father returning from a diplomatic mission to one of the desert kingdoms. He had been laden with spices and strange jewels, and all sorts of shawls and fabrics. Bright blues and pinks and reds had beamed out at her. For Pansy, who had only ever known the palace grounds, they had been enchanting in their strangeness. They contrasted strongly against the greys and soft greens of her home. Pansy had selected a tapestry: red stitching over an earthy brown fabric, and had hung it gently above her dresser, where she could see it every morning as she woke. It had contrasted madly with the careful colour scheme she had chosen when she first began to occupy the room. Pansy found she did not mind.

Apparently, Ginevra’s brother, Charlie, has his own dragon, which he calls Errol, after a bird he’d had as a pet when he was younger. He’d sent a painting of the creature, which Ginevra points out. It hangs next to a dilapidated bookshelf crammed with recipe books. The dragon is huge, and green. The picture itself is battered and smudged, but Pansy can make out a figure with bright red hair stroking on of its wings.

“That’s Charlie,” Ginevra says. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she looks at the picture. “He’s been gone two years, but he’s returning for Christmas this year. We’re going to all meet at the Burrow–that’s where we lived as children. My brothers, Fred and George, they manage the bakery, but they’ve also got this strange line of potions that they sell, too. Thingsfor practical jokes upon friends. I’ve turned Neville into a canary for an _hour_ with one of their…concoctions.”

Pansy has never heard of such a potion, but she imagines doing it to Theo, and decides that it would be rather funny. “Your brothers, they’re–witches?”

“Huh? Yes, they all are,” Ginevra says. “Not me, though, I haven’t got a lick of magic in me. I have to go to Luna for all my spells.”

Pansy says, “I have some, I think. Nothing too powerful, though, I imagine. I can change the colour of my dresses, and things. Nothing else that I’ve found.” She threads her hands through her hair. It has knotted, though not too badly. She demonstrates, turning her white riding shirt a bright blue, before switching it back.

Ginevra laughs, softly. “I suppose that’s useful, for a quick change at a ball, or something.”

“I don’t–“ Pansy begins, but she doesn’t know what else to say. They sit in silence for a moment, before Ginevra sighs quietly, and blows out the candle. The flickering light dies. There is a rustling sound as she lies down.

“Goodnight, princess.”

“Goodnight.”

If she notices Pansy retrieving her miniatures of her friends and a candle, or hears the quiet sobbing from the kitchen as she looks at their pictures, Ginevra doesn’t say anything.

 

The morning spreads its warm light over her face, and Pansy groans. Ginevra, too, lies face down on her mat. Ron comes bustling in, tray against his hip.

“Breakfast,” he says, and Ginevra shoots upwards. He laughs. “Now I know how Mum felt. Come on. You should leave soon if you want to get some serious distance in before noon.”

Ginevra makes a vulgar gesture in his direction, but gets up. Through the trees, the light casts a dappled spotlight on her. A gold earring that Pansy hadn’t noticed before glints at her. Pansy begins to pull on her boots by way of a distraction.

“Do you know the route?” she questions, busying herself with the buckles.

“Oh, yeah, my lady. I’ve made it loads of times–I’m Ron’s personal carry-horse, whenever he’s got something for Harry.”

Ron throws a towel in her direction. Ginevra guffaws.

“Who’s Harry?” Pansy asks.

“Who’s Harry?” mimics Ginny, a little unkindly. “Only the guy I’m taking you all this way to see.”

Pansy had never considered that the Chosen One would have an actual name. She winces. “Oh.”

Ginny saunters through to the kitchen. Pansy follows, glancing at the painting of the dragon as she goes. In the better light of day, she can see the fierce grin that Ginevra’s brother wears. She feels a little sick, but tries to ignore it.

 

Ron has prepared several loaves of bread, as well as a basket of food for their journey. They feast of slices of warm bread lathered with butter, and Pansy can’t help but think that it’s better than any fancy meal the cooks at home could provide. She winces, slightly. _Don’t get distracted._

Eventually, when she can eat no more, Ginevra goes to fuss around Pig. Ron rolls his eyes in her direction. He looks conspiratorially at Pansy.

“That poor horse has the stupidest name,” he says, “ever.”

“I heard that!” cries Ginevra from outside.

Pansy tries to stifle the laughter, but it pours out of her all the same.

 

Pig, Ginevra declares, is not capable of carrying two people for so long. She announces that they have to pass by her bakery to borrow the horse of one of her eldest brothers.

“Percy _dotes_ ,” says Ginevra, proudly, “so he won’t like it, but he’ll give me Hermes, if I bring him back.”

Pansy tries to envision having a doting older brother. Her imagination falls flat. She looks to the forest instead, where the dappled light still filters through the trees. A songbird coos at them from the branches. Pansy sees its nest behind it, laden with eggs.

As they pass into the forest, she notices several lopsided archery targets. Ginevra laughs when she sees them.

“Those have been there since I was a kid,” she says. “I think it was Nymphadora who first made them. Maybe with Bill.”

Pansy doesn’t recognise the names, but she recognises Ginevra’s fondness for these people, and notices that Ginevra gets off the horse to set the targets straight.

Some kids wave wildly at them as they pass. Ginevra waves back, grinning, and urges Pansy to do the same. Before she can, the kids are bounding off into the forest, crowing and giggling.

“Hello, Miss Ginny!” one cries as they pass. His blindingly blue hair disappears among the trees as they pass.

“Don’t cause too much trouble, now!” she replies, fond. She turns to Pansy. “The girl–the blonde, she’s my niece. And the other one’s little Teddy Lupin. Menaces, the pair of them.” It’s not insulting, the way it might have been if this was Pansy’s home. She remembers, being called a _menace_ after she’d run from her etiquette lessons to watch Blaise, Theo and Draco learning to fight with Mr. Crabbe. _Menace,_ her mother had called her, pulling her away from the window and back to the waiting arms of Lady Malfoy and her instructions on proper table manners. The way Ginevra says it, now, it’s not an insult. It’s far more a fond expression, as if she knows these two kids well, and loves them.

It’s not half an hour’s ride to the village, but Pansy’s thighs are beginning to ache from the uncomfortable feeling of the saddle. So when Ginevra pulls up outside a tiny church, and suggests they walk the rest of the way, Pansy agrees fervently.

The village, Hogsmeade, is small and cheery. People bustle around, laughing and whistling. A woman with bright pink hair is tending to a pumpkin patch in front of a cottage not unlike Ron’s. She waves to Ginevra, who waves back. In fact, nearly everyone in the village seems to recognise the knight. They smile and wish her well on ‘whatever reckless quest she’s caught up in now’, as one man, who Ginevra calls _Lupin,_ puts it. Some even go out of their way to greet Pansy, too, asking her her name and how she’d gotten caught up in Ginevra’s ’nonsense’. Pansy laughs, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Everyone here is so warm, and their homes so inviting. This is the kind of place where Pansy wishes she’d grown up. She wishes that she’d been born in one of these simple cottages, that she’d gotten the chance to muck about in the forest and run barefooted across fields and put on plays in the square for passersby. She wishes she could have lived off of bread and cheese, and worked weekends in the market. She wishes she could have had a family as welcoming as what she has seen of Ginevra’s.

She squashes the thought. It feels like a betrayal. _Don’t get distracted._

 

The bakery is in fact a small part of a sprawling, precarious-looking house. The lower part appears much the same as all the other houses on the dirt road they’ve walked down, but a tower has been constructed which balances on several wood columns that look as though they might give way at any moment. A wood sign hangs above the door that reads _Weasleys’ Delights._

Ginevra leads the way inside. The smell of baking bread envelopes Pansy as soon as she passes through the door. She inhales deeply, and sighs.

“Hello, Miss Weasley,” says a woman. She’s tall, with round spectacles balanced on her nose. “Back so soon?”

Ginevra laughs. “Well, I’m leaving soon, I’m afraid. Just here for a horse.” She turns round, and beckons Pansy forward. “This is Minerva McGonagall. She is– _was–_ my teacher, way back when.”

“And what a trouble-maker she was!”

It truly is strange, how close-knit this funny town is. Pansy opens her mouth to say something out of obligation, but she is saved by yet another red-head bursting through the door to a back room.

“Is that my Ickle Ginnykins I hear?” he cries. He spreads his arms and ushers her into a tight hug. His apron is old and worn but carefully preserved, and it crinkles when he moves. Pansy suspects it was fashioned out of old sacks of flour.

“Fred, you’re not _funny_ ,” admonishes another person, from within the other room. 

“Hello Fred, hello Percy,” says Ginevra. They both respond in kind. “Where’s George?”

“You called?” says someone, materialising out of nowhere. Pansy jumps. Fred cackles. Ginevra hits both of her brothers playfully across the arm.

“Hello to you too, my favourite sister,” exclaims the person who Pansy assumes is George, rubbing his arm indignantly. These must be the twins, then. They are identical save for a mole beneath Fred’s left eye. 

“I _wish_ you wouldn’t do that,” says the final Weasley, Percy, emerging from the back room carrying several loaves of bread. He is bespectacled and has no apron, and rolls his eyes as the twins pull a face at him. Pansy notices the shelf of potions Ginny had described and goes to inspect them, not wanting to look like she’s intruding. 

Ginevra murmurs quietly with her brothers. Pansy listens, endeavouring to look as much like she _isn’t_ listening as possible. She inspects the brightly-coloured bottles adorning the shelf. One, a bright yellow mixture, catches her eye. She pockets it quietly while her companions are otherwise occupied.

“Fine,” says Percy, “you can have him. But mind you’re careful he doesn’t get hurt. And feed him! Properly!”

Ginevra nods, but there’s a glint of victory in her eye. She winks at Pansy. Pansy blushes bright red and goes to look at the various _Delights_ on the countertop. Her favourite is a decadent chocolate cake, with blue icing. Fred notices her looking, and cuts her a generous piece.

“For the road,” he winks.

“What about me, your _favourite sister_?” demands Ginevra. Fred shrugs.

In the back of her brain, a voice cries out to Pansy to return the stolen potion. She ignores it, and lets Ginevra lead her outside to find Hermes, mumbling about unfairness and _reverse nepotism_ , which makes George cackle loudly.

 

Once they leave Hogsmeade, the journey becomes uneventful. The horses plod on. Neither Pansy nor Ginevra says anything, besides the occasional _Should we take a break?_ from Ginevra, to which the answer is always _No._

The sooner Pansy finds the Chosen One, the sooner this will all be over. The sooner she will be safely installed back at the palace. The sooner her family will be safe.

She busies herself with counting how many birds she can see, and desperately ignoring the way Ginny murmurs to Pig whenever he gets overexcited by his surroundings. .

 

Finally, they set up camp for the night in a clearing among the woods. Pansy rolls out their sleeping mats while Ginevra lights a fire. It springs to light under her fingers. For a moment, Pansy suspects she was lying about not having any magic, before she returns several tools to her pack.

Pansy asks a question that has been burning in the back of her mind since they arrived at the village.

“Your village,” she says, “Has the Dark Lord–has he not…”

Ginevra looks sombre. “No,” she murmurs. “He has.”

“Did he not–“

Ginevra considers her for a moment, before saying, simply, “He killed my parents.”

“Oh. I’m sorry–“

“That’s okay.” Ginny rubs the back of her neck with her hand. Pansy takes her other arm–the one where her hand is missing. She begins to rub circles in it. She feels a little uncomfortable doing it, but Ginny relaxes. She sags against the fallen log they were leaning against. “Harry, that’s the Chosen One, he banished him. And then he set up barriers around our village, and the forest, so that no person who wasn’t–pure of heart–could enter.”

“But You-Know-Who–he’s still… _alive_ ,” Pansy says. The fire flickers in front of her. She wonders how Ginevra managed to survive with the grief. Her family isn’t even dead, and it’s still consuming her.

“Yeah. He did some _awful_ dark magic, and he… he survived. Harry couldn’t bring himself to–to end it,” Ginevra laughs, but it’s wet. Sorrowful. “He blames himself, for everyone that died. My parents… they took him in, after he lost _his_ parents. And they died… Harry thinks it was all his fault. It’s been five years, and all he’s done is made Ron the Guardian of the village–the one who judges who’s _pure_ and who isn’t–and then vanished off to some cave. We’re the only ones who know _where_ he is.”

Pansy watches Ginevra watch the flames. They reflect into her eyes, where tears are welling up. Daylight is fading. Ginevra turns back to Pansy. “I don’t– I miss him. And I miss them. We can’t–You-Know-Who’s still out there–your people show as much. But he’s scared. And it’s…”

The knight’s eyes flicker with something desperate. Pansy feels her own gaze move to her companion’s mouth. She stops herself. _Don’t get distracted._

But there’s no way to continue on until the morning. There’s no reason why– _No. Don’t get distracted._

And yet…

Ginevra laughs again. “I’m worried. I think he should be saving the rest of the world, instead of just hiding… Do you know, he used to have the most _monstrous_ crush on me…”

Pansy’s heart pounds. She rubs more circles against the stump where Ginevra’s hand should be. The colours of the forest begin to fade into blacks and greys. The light evaporates, except for the occasionally flashes of the fire.

“Well,” Ginevra says, pulling away, “I’ve told you pretty much my entire life story, and yet I know nothing about _you_.”

“Oh,” says Pansy. She pulls her legs up, rests her chin on her knees. She searches for a story that won’t reveal too much. And she begins to speak. She speaks about Astoria and their endless games they’d play with Lady Malfoy during etiquette lessons, about their hunting trips. She talks about Theo’s terrible haircut and the way Blaise’s eyes shine with mirth when he tells a joke, typically at another’s expense. She talks of days spent planning outfits and organising balls and imagining long expeditions once she’s queen. They had planned to go to the far away lands where the beautiful tapestries and decadent spices had come from; to countries with gardens filled with cherry trees where they could drink tea and watch the blossoms bloom; they would ride on elephants and see lions and monkeys and huge snakes with sharp teeth. She talks about her tiny tower room with the red balcony where she would sit and read and gaze down at the village below, watching the smoke pour out of the chimneys and the windmill turn and the ant-sized people bustle about with their shopping and their children and their partners. Ginevra listens to it all, enraptured. When she’s done, she leans back against the tree-trunk and sighs. The fire is dying, spitting out its last efforts at heat.

“I wish I could go back,” she says.

“So do I,” says Ginevra, wistful.

“Ginevra–“ she begins, but is cut off.

“Oh, don’t call me that. You pretty much just shared the contents of your soul with me. It’s Ginny.” She offers her hand. Pansy grasps it, laughing.

It’s strange, how much she feels at home with this knight. This knight, who she met yesterday, and who she is now leaning against, comfortably. It feels almost like a betrayal.

When the tears begin to slip out, she doesn’t bother to hide them. Ginny smiles gently, and wipes her eyes.

“Do you want me to go?” she whispers, pointing in the direction of the other mat, on the other side of the fire.

“That’s okay,” says Pansy, because it truly is. Frankly, this is one of the only things that _is_ okay right now. Maybe it won’t be tomorrow, but right now, she deserves the comfort.

So Ginny lies down next to her, and she lets herself but drawn into dreams. She’ll worry about _this–_ whatever it is–in the morning.

 

Pansy tries not to think too much about it. Ginny acts the same the next morning as she had the previous, anyway, so it’s not too hard. And yet, there’s a closeness between them that had not been there the night before.

Pansy doesn’t know what will happen between them when they reach the cave of the Chosen One.

She imagines nothing good.

 

They have been riding for almost the entire morning when they arrive at the bridge. It’s ancient and rickety. Several gold coins lie discarded on it, as well as what Pansy guesses are bones. Ginny sighs, deeply.

“Okay,” she says, “this is a troll bridge. Let me–you know. Deal with it.”

Pansy watches her uneasily as she steps onto the bridge. She’s heard the stories of innocent people swept from the bridge when they can’t pay to cross. Ginny holds a single bag of gold. Pansy can hardly guess if that’s going to be enough.

Ginny’s sword clinks against her armour. She makes it halfway across the bridge. Then she pauses.

No sound.

Pansy listens carefully for any movement.

Nothing.

Ginny takes another step. Another.

Pansy waits for the troll to erupt from under the bridge.

Still, there is nothing.

And then, suddenly, the trolls burst forward. They are monstrous. Their faces curl in a sneer.

In unison, they cry, “Who _dares_ attempt to cross _our_ bridge.”

Ginny laughs, but it’s harried. Almost afraid. “Just little old me,” she says. “Sir Ginevra Weasley.”

The trolls turn thunderous. “We know Sir Weasley!” they boom.

“Oh, brilliant,” Ginny mutters, as if this is common.

“Yes! Was it not you who slayed the troll of the East Knoll Bridge?”

Ginny pales. “...Maybe?”

“But it was! He took your hand, so you took his head!” Their accusations boom down the river. “Now we shall take _yours_ as penance!”

“I don’t know about that,” says Ginny. “Why don’t you just let me through, and in exchange I won’t kill you.”

She hurls the gold at them, exchanging it for her sword. The middle troll bats it away effortlessly. “It will take more than gold to rid you of your crime!”

Ginny pounces. The trolls deflect every blow with their enormous hands. Her sword barely makes a dent. Pansy screams.

“Enough games!” they declare. One grabs her by the shoulders. Another takes her legs. “We shall _rip you in two_ for killing the East Knoll Bridge Troll!”

Ginny glares at them. The final troll plucks her sword from her hand and chucks it in Pansy’s direction. She nearly falls off her horse with her hurry to duck. There is a strange, hard feeling in her chest. She collects the sword. The hard feeling grows as she sets her feet on the ground. She stands.

“PUT HER DOWN!” she cries. And the trolls do.

Pansy isn’t sure if it’s surprise or fear which makes them do it. Then, suddenly, the feeling in her chest explodes. And she understands.

 

_Pansy, aged ten, demanding for the cook to make her a triple tiered rainbow cake for her birthday._

_“My lady,” says the cook, “it’s impossible!”_

_“Do it.”_

_And the cook had pulled a strange face, but obeyed._

 

_Pansy, aged thirteen, arguing with Theo over something stupid._

_“Why don’t you just jump off the balcony and_ die _!” she exclaims._

_And Theo goes for the balcony. The fear envelopes her, she cries, “Stop! Don’t!”_

 

_Pansy, aged eighteen, imploring the Dark Lord to SPARE HER!_

_His hand stops. He grimaces. He moves on._

 

 _Oh,_ she thinks. _Oh, God._ She wastes no time in ordering the trolls to let her through. They throw themselves from the bridge immediately. Ginny stares after them.

“Wow,” she says. “I guess changing the colours of dresses isn’t your only talent.”

Pansy cant help it. She laughs. The river twinkles in the sunlight. Ginny throws her head back. Her eyes shine. “You-“ she says, in between cackles, “you saved me!”

“Yeah,” Pansy murmurs. “I guess I did.”

When Ginny kisses her, Pansy contributes it to the heat of the moment. Her mouth is hot. Pansy closes her eyes.

“I don’t-“ she says.

“That’s okay,” says Ginny. Pansy laughs against her mouth.

“Okay. Alright. Okay,” she murmurs.

Ginny presses her mouth against Pansy’s forehead. She says, “We should go save your people.”

Dread fills Pansy. She says, “Just a moment.” She fumbles her hands through Ginny’s hair. It’s reflecting the sun’s light, in places. “I don’t want this to end.”

Ginny laughs. The dread widens. “It won’t.”

Pansy doesn’t correct her. She only follows Ginny across the bridge.

The moment ends. The Chosen One draws nearer.

“Come on, slowpoke,” exclaims Ginny. She canters ahead.

Pansy wants to scream at her to _slow down!_ She doesn’t. She focuses on counting the birds and making sure Hermes doesn’t veer off course. _Don’t get distracted._ She’s gotten distracted. The pain of it will come in time, she knows.

 

The trees begin to form a path for them to follow. They’re taller than they were by Ron’s cottage, and their leaves are darker; almost black. Pansy steels herself. The cave grows bigger, and bigger until finally they are in front of it. Ginny laughs, wildly, pulling Pig to a halt.

Evening is falling. Soon, she will be home. Soon, her people will be safe. She just has to survive the next few hours.

The mouth of the cave looms above them, great and black. Ginny dismounts immediately. Pansy watches her. She watches the way her red hair falls against her back. “What are you waiting for?” asks Ginny.

Pansy closes her eyes, and reaches into her pack. She closes her hand around the vial. Ginny turns. Pansy hopes she can see the sorrow in her eyes.

“Oh, Hell-“ murmurs Ginny. Pansy hurls the yellow liquid at her. She averts her eyes; she doesn’t want to see the betrayal in the other’s eyes. _This is for your people,_ she reminds herself.

There is birdsong. A yellow canary stands where Ginny just was. Pig is whinnying madly, Pansy attempts to shush him, but he only gets more agitated. Eventually, she gives up. This is only wasting time until she has to face the Chosen One.

Steeling herself, she enters the cave.

 

The constant _drip_ of water from the ceiling is the only sound in the cave besides Pansy’s footsteps. She clings tightly to her pack. Her footsteps echoes down the tunnel. She braces herself for whatever defences the Chosen One may have, but there are none. She spots several bats curled up against the ceiling as she passes.

The tunnel opens up into a large chamber which has been set up as a makeshift home. Rugs are strewn haphazardly across the floor. Several mismatched armchairs are grouped around a small campfire. A bed-less mattress is tucked in the corner. Slumped in one of the armchairs, head in his hands, is a boy no older than Pansy. He looks up at her arrival. Several candles sputter when he meets her eyes.

“So you’re the one,” he says. He doesn’t make much of an effort to defend himself. His eyes flash gold for a second.

“Don’t try and use your magic,” she demands. A glimmer of understanding shines behind his glasses as his eyes return to their original green, but he says nothing. His disheveled hair and lopsided glasses give him an air of defeat. Pansy stares at him. He finishes his tea, and stands. “Follow me,” she instructs.

He does as he is told.

Pansy can feel his eyes on the back of her head as she leads him back down the tunnel. She endeavours to stay collected. It would be foolish to face the Dark Lord while distressed.

Once they’re outside, back in the light of the forest, Pansy begins to shout. It feels stupid, crying out to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the middle of a forest clearing, but she does it.

“I’ve done as you asked!” she cries to the heavens. _Arsehole_ , she almost adds, but restrains herself. _Destroyer of lives._

The Dark Lord’s approach is heralded by darkening clouds and the distant rumble of thunder. He appears, red eyes blazing, in front of her. Everything about him is snake-like, despicable. And yet he’s the only person who can save her people. After all, _he_ was the one who cursed them.

“Hello, Tom,” says Harry, wearily.

“Harry Potter,” spits He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Even his words are snake-like, breathy and full of hisses. “We meet again.”

Harry scoffs. “Oh, piss off. Just kill me and get it over with.”

“Why on Earth would I do that, Potter?” The Dark Lord’s tone is ridiculing. He utters the word _Potter_ like it’s a terrible insult.

The Chosen One looks stricken. It’s the first time in this entire exchange he’s looked truly afraid.

Pansy tries to stay aloof. But behind her, a canary titters, and her insides crumple. She focuses on holding her callous expression, adopting a slight sneer.

 _This is how it had to be,_ she reminds herself. Her heart says otherwise. It trips and bounces and catapults around her body. A sea of guilt starts to build in her stomach. It grows, until she feels almost suffocated with the sensation. She tries to focus on happy memories, but all she can think of is the light of the fire and the warm taste of Ron’s muffins. And Ginny, always Ginny.  The guilt grows. 

The Dark Lord raises his hands. His bloody eyes are focused on Harry, who glares back. Nobody moves as they are swept away. To her people, Pansy hopes. _Home._

If she had looked back, she might have noticed a tiny canary sitting on Harry’s shoulder, before the world shifted and changed.

 

Travelling by teleportation was something Pansy never wanted to do again. She spat out several curses as the horses whinnied in fright. Pig flipped up onto his hind legs, neighing frantically. Pansy went to calm him down. The Chosen One went to join her, resting a hand on Hermes’ neck and murmuring reassuringly. The horse seemed to recognise him, because he calmed down fairly quickly after that. She opens her mouth to say something, but the Dark Lord cuts her off.

“I’m sure we can all get acquainted once we’ve safely removed ourselves to the dungeon,” he hisses.

“My people–“ Pansy begins.

“We’ll get to it.” He begins to sweep down the corridor, ignoring the bodies lying by the sides and beckoning a woman who had been standing in the shadows to take Harry. _Bellatrix Lestrange_. A wave of hatred surges through Pansy. So it was she, then, who had assisted He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in cursing her people– _their_ people. Pansy glares at her, befogging mustering a wave of courage.

“No,” she demands. “Stop.”

You-Know-Who laughs. “Your little demands won’t work on me, little girl. I am protected against them.”

“And I just got the Chosen One for you,” she says. “Seems like you owe me. Lift the curse. Now.”

He chuckles. It’s the laugh of someone who has succeeded in everything he’s ever wanted, but has sacrificed his entire soul to do so. “Very well, Princess.”

Pansy seethes. He waves his hands. Black tendrils begin to seep out of the bodies on the floor. They begin to move.

Pansy nearly collapses from relief. It is done, then. She has saved them. She may have lost a part of herself in doing so, but they are okay. That’s all that matters.

She can feel Harry’s eyes on her. She ignores it, and returns to the Hall. Harry is swept away to the dungeons.

 

The Princess busies herself with helping her people, explaining what has happened and instructing them in how to help.

Her knight stows away behind her, waiting for her own curse to lift. She balances on a gargoyle in the corner of the room, and watches her shake a boy awake.

“P-Pansy,” he whispers. “What what happened?”

“You’re okay, Blaise,” she replies. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

The knight listens to the quiet reassurances, the soft murmurs of thanks. And she follows the princess all the way, until she finally kicks off her boots and collapses into her bed, and cries.

 

Pansy wakes, to silk sheets and a comfortable mattress and the sun spreading over the horizon. Light pools onto the floor, onto her bed, and onto… She starts. Ginny sits in a chair, head in her hand. Her chest-plate is even more lopsided than usual. Tear-tracks line her eyes when she looks up. Her expression makes the guilt inside of Pansy double, triple, until it can barely fit in her body. She says nothing, sure that if she opens her mouth all the apologies will spill out like a waterfall.

What right does she have to apologise? What right does she have to even be looking at Ginny right now?

She knows the tears are for her, knows that Ginny’s sorrow is all because of her. Does she know that she has Pansy’s heart hostage? Pansy hopes so. Maybe it will relieve Ginny’s pain, to break Pansy’s heart.

“You’re awake,” says the knight who owns her heart.

Pansy says nothing. There are no words to say.

“Get up. We’re saving Harry.”

She does have words for this. “No.”

Ginny stands up. “No?”

Pansy says it again. “No. I’m not– No.”

“ _You_ are the most slimy, horrendous, awful person I have ever met in my whole life.”

This is true. Pansy still feels sick at the words. “I won’t do it.”

Ginny’s face was a thunderstorm. “Well, _I_ am going. And you’d better not try to stop me with your… freaky ordering thing!”

The idea that Pansy would ever do that is a blow to the stomach. _You did do it,_ she reminds herself. _You did it to Harry._ It doesn’t make her feel any better.

“I don’t want…” she begins. “You _can’t._ You’ll die, and I – I don’t know what I’d do.”

Ginny spits in her face. “You should have thought of that _before_ you turned me into a canary.” She turns on her heel and begins to march for the door.

Pansy has never been spat at before. It spurs her to action. “Fuck, okay,” she says, eloquently. “Wait. I’m coming.”

She’s still wearing her clothes from yesterday–she doesn’t waste time changing, only pulls her boots on hastily. “I’ll take you to him, okay. To Harry. I–“ _I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m the worst._

“Let’s go, then,” says Ginny, simply. “Let’s go.”

 

They burst from the room, Pansy stringing her bow, while Ginny levels her sword carefully in front of her. The corridor is quiet.

Together, they sneak down endless flights of stairs. The dungeon is unguarded, not even by one of the Dark Lord’s goons. _Something is not right._

The grey stone walls loom oppressively on either side of them. Pansy leads the way. Every one of her nerves is screaming at her. _Get out!_ they cry. _Go back to bed._

Harry isn’t in a cell.

Bellatrix is. She cleans her nails with the point of a knife and smiles widely at them.

“The Master figured you might try something,” she says to Pansy. She stands, retrieving another knife. “I don’t know the ginger, though.”

“The name’s Sir Ginevra,” says Ginny, stalking forward. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it isn’t.”

“Feisty,” cackles their opponent. Pansy levels her bow in her direction. “What is it like, Princess, to always have a knight to fight your battles for you?”

“Don’t fight us,” she says. Bellatrix only cackles harder.

“Master warned me about your little tricks. Gave me a nice little solution.” She taps a silver pendant at her throat, her grin knife-sharp. “So I wouldn’t bother with that.”

Ginny raises her sword. “Guess we’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way.” She lunges forward, so the tip of the knife is at Bellatrix’s throat. “Where is Harry?”

Black smoke begins to seep out of the walls.

“You _really_ think I’m going to answer that?” cries Bellatrix. Ginny figures out what’s happening just a second later. She ducks, crying out. Her sword grazes Bellatrix’s leg, who only laughs harder at the impact.

Pansy has spent years sparring with Draco, and Draco himself had trained with Bellatrix herself. She can do this, she knows she can. She surges forward, dagger at the ready.

“You gave us up!” she cries. “All those years, were you _spying_ for him behind our backs? Telling him when to act on us?” Bellatrix whirls, blocks an attack. Pansy feints left. Bellatrix’s knives cut through the black smoke easily. Pansy aims for her hand, but the smoke solidifies around her hand, turning to a sludgy jelly. She pulls it out, hurtling backwards as she does. Bellatrix trips her; she falls…

Bellatrix looms…

And Ginny is on her. Pansy sees the swirling fog, and the glint of metal. There’s a crash, and the sound of a bed whirling.

“Ginny,” she shouts, “the necklace!”

Ginny nods, and kicks Bellatrix in the stomach. A knife flies backwards, landing with a _squelch_ in the strange black jelly. Pansy seizes it. Into the fray she jumps. it feels so natural with Ginny at her side.

Bellatrix lunges forward at Ginny. Pansy sees her chance. She lifts the knife behind the pendant, and _pulls._ The charm clatters to the floor. Bellatrix shrieks. She thrashes wildly. Ginny cries out in pain. Bellatrix clutches at her magic, turning it into spikes which point towards Pansy, threateningly sharp.

“Put down your weapons,” Pansy orders. “And cease the magic.”

Bellatrix wears a look of pure, frenzied loathing on her face. She obeys. The smoke dissolves into the air. The column of sludge that had encases Pansy’s hand vaporises. She shakes herself out.

Blood trickles down Ginny’s face, onto her shirt. She gathers her swords, wipes the smoke from it delicately. The floor is covered in night-black goo, mixed with streams of red.

“Now take us to the Chosen One.”

 

The Dark Lord stands in the hall, blood-red eyes seething. A masked minion holds Harry by the neck, dagger at the ready. The once brightly lit hall is now dark and gloomy. Huge candles hang from the ceiling, but the light they emit is minimal, weak.

“Say nothing,” Pansy says to Bellatrix. “But go and stand by the Dark Lord. And when the time comes… remove that necklace.”

Bellatrix’s dark eyes glitter with hatred. She does as she is told, nodding at You-Know-Who, who smiles, knife-sharp. A crowd has gathered in the back of the hall. Pansy and Ginny slip among them. Pansy’s people look tired, defeated, as if the curse still sucks the liveliness from their bodies.

“Harry Potter,” cries Voldemort, voice dangerous, “how does it feel to be defeated by the greatest wizard who ever lived?”

Harry laughs bitterly. He has stopped struggling against his captor, hanging limp, still glaring at his greatest enemy.

He spits out, “You aren’t the greatest wizard that ever lived. You had to get a teenage girl to capture me for you.”

The crowd almost laughs. Voldemort shoots some kind of silencing spell over them, but the noise still rumbles around the room.

Harry continues. “You’re a measly excuse for a wizard–“ the knife against his throat is pushed deeper. Harry stops speaking. Splutters. Distantly, there’s a crash. A boom.

“You, the Chosen One, are no better. You rely on your _friends_ for everything! You have no real talent. Why won’t you face me, like a man? Like a wizard should?” He laughs. The crashing sounds are closer now. “Where are your saviours now?”

A crash reverberates around the room. The doors to the hall fly open.

“Right _fucking_ here!” cries someone– _Ron._ Pansy looks to Ginny, who’s smirking victoriously.

“You were holding out on me!” she whispers. The crowd around them murmurs, backs away.

“Well, I _did_ think you were a traitor,” she reasons. Pansy shrugs, elbowing her slightly.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

The crowd in the doorway is huge. Ron stands at the front, eyes shining. He’s flanked by Hermione and Luna and Neville from the inn, and every single one of his brothers. Pansy even recognises Charlie from the painting, grinning and brandishing an enormous club. She can even spot Hagrid the barman, double the size of his companions and grinning ear-to-ear. Voldemort screams in anger. Pansy looks to Bellatrix, who is struggling against the invisible hold Pansy has on her. She can’t help but feel a little invigorated as she fights against the control, hands reaching out to her master’s neck…

Who grabs her by the wrist, and throws her to one side.

“Parkinson!” he thunders. “I see you really can’t _not_ betray anyone!”

Pansy reaches for Ginny’s arm. Ginny shoots her a grin.

“At least now you’re defecting to the right side,” she quips. Pansy shoves her, pulling out her bow. She aims for the person holding Harry, and fires. He falls back, pulling Harry with him. Harry elbows his way out of the stronghold, jumping forward. He holds out his palms towards Voldemort… and nothing happens.

A realisation thuds in Pansy’s brain.

“Ginny,” she says, “I need to get to a place where Harry can hear me.”

Their army roars. It pounces. Together, Ginny and Pansy surge forwards.

 

Pansy has never really known battles. Not to this extent, anyway. It hurts, to see her old friends and her new ones crossing swords.

“Hey, Pans!” cries someone. It’s Astoria, hair wild and dress torn. She brandishes a sword and weaves water around her fingers like a rope. “Next time you lead an army to defeat the Dark Lord, let me know, so I can help you.”

She lashes out with her water-whip, hitting Lord Carrow on the head. He yowls in pain. “Huh. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Draco, at her back, grins, and punches his father in the face. “I’ve always wanted to do _that._ ”

Lord Malfoy growls, and tries to strike at his son. Pansy kicks him behind the knees and moves on. Another Weasley with an earring and shoulder-length hair eyes her suspiciously. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, before getting distracted by someone punching him.

Pansy notices Bellatrix, apparently freed from her control enough to attack. She jumps forward, but Ginny shakes her head.

“Get to Harry,” she says. “I’ve got this.”

She turns on Bellatrix, sword at the ready. Pansy notices Ron joining her.

“Wow,” cackles Bellatrix, “so many Weasleys for me to kill, just like I got your mummy and daddy.”

Pansy watches Ginny’s face contort in rage. Rob raises his hand, and a tree root bursts through the ground. He threads it around her ankle. Bellatrix cuts it with her smoke. The pendant glitters around her neck.

 _Don’t get distracted,_ Pansy reminds herself. Ginny can handle this. She runs forward, occasionally throwing a knife at an attacker or pausing to check people are okay. Harry is fistfighting someone a few meters away, weapon-less and magic-less.

“Harry!” she cries. He turns, narrowly blocking a punch from Yaxley. “Feel free to use your magic!”

Harry laughs. “Finally.”

His eyes turn gold. The magic pours out of him, straight at Yaxley, who’s bowled over by its force. He grins at her.

“You know, I could have broken that curse,” he tells her. A tendril of gold wraps around Lady Carrow and holds her in place.

“Yeah,” says Pansy. “I fucked up pretty badly.”

Harry laughs. “No shit. Anyway, get back.”

There explodes out of him an enormous wave of magic. It wraps around her, around everyone, creating a barrier between them. Suddenly, Harry and Voldemort are trapped together inside Harry’s magic.

“Everybody stop!” cries Pansy. It echoes around the strange bubble that Harry’s created. Everyone turns to look at the Chosen One, and the Dark Lord.

“Come to die at last, Potter?”

“No, Tom,” says Harry. “This is your time.”

 

It’s over. Pansy can’t help but laugh. All that disaster, all that loss, over within an hour. Harry collapsed shortly after Voldemort was killed. Several doctors hurry around him now, while Ron and Hermione hold his hand (and each other’s). She spots her old friends, Blaise and Draco and Theo and Astoria, huddled in the same spot they sat in at that Winter Solstice years ago. Ginny’s brothers crowd around each other, checking for bruises. Pansy’s fairly sure Charlie’s crying.

And Pansy laughs. She sits back against a toppled chair and laughs. She barely notices when someone comes to stand in front of her. It’s Ginny, looking down at Pansy with her wild eyes, hand resting on her sword. The blood on her temple has dried, leaving her with a crusted red mark down her face.

“What are you going to do now?” Ginny asks, voice hoarse in a way that makes Pansy’s pulse race.

“Who knows?” Pansy says. She forces her voice to be cool, even callous. “I’ll buy some new shoes, a dress or two. Cut my hair again. Attend some balls, if I’m invited.Maybe even break some hearts.” Here, she falters. Ginny’s expression is dreadful: sad and hideous. She looks to the floor, hair spilling forwards and hiding her face. Without her armour, she looks strangely fragile. Her limbs are long and thin, her stature tall and lean.

“You’ve already broken mine,” she murmurs. It’s so quiet that Pansy barely registers it. She takes a step forward, until Ginny finally meets her eyes. Their gentle brown meets her own harsh green. For a moment, neither woman moves. Pansy focuses on the flecks of green and yellow which make up that soft bark-brown.

And she realises something, distantly. It’s somehow the realest thing she has ever felt in her entire life.

So Pansy presses her lips against her companion’s. She can feel Ginny’s brief moment of shock, before she relaxes. The world dims. Pansy is no longer conscious of anything except the press of lips and the warmth of a hand on the small of her back. She can feel the _thrum_ of Ginny’s heart against her own. It’s fast, and yet strangely steady. Comforting.

Eventually, they break away. Pansy half-expects cherubs to burst from the beams in the ceilings and begin to sing.

“Did I really?” she whispers, as she leans her forehead against Ginny’s.

“Really what?”

“Break your heart?”

Ginny laughs. It’s incredulous, and allows relief to spread throughout Pansy’s body. She had been fooling herself, pretending she didn’t care. Now she found she cared more than she had cared about anything before.

“A little,” murmurs Ginny, between kisses. “I forgive you, though.”

Pansy reseals their mouths together. The world shifts. It’s like something out of a novel, or a painting. Yet she feels as though it would be impossible to capture this feeling on a page or a canvas. There are too many fragile emotions for even the greatest of novelists to properly express.

“Pansy,” whispers Ginny, “you’re... well, you’re something.”

Pansy laughs breathily. “You’re something too, sweetheart.”

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory [tumblr](http://excelsior.co.vu) link :) come yell at me.


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